


Working Girl

by supersoakerx



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29195994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: An alternate re-telling of that time Wilson meets House at a bar in s1--instead, House meets Reader (you!)
Relationships: Greg House & Reader, Greg House/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Working Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you're interested in more of this! I am tempted to write a second smutty part to this short little thing x

House’s phone buzzed on the bartop—a reply from Wilson, which read:

‘Can’t yet. Dinner party. 30 min ok?’

House sighed and flipped the phone face-down on the polished surface. He stared into the lowball glass, eyeing the clear, amber liquid.

You spot him from across the bar, his chest deflating and shoulders slumping as he disregards the mobile. Fatigue and frustration blend his features into a scowl, his face lined with the stories, smiles and heartaches of his years. His grey hair and short stubble beckon the touch of your fingers and his eyes—good God in Heaven. His big blue eyes that he just barely flicks up away from his glass tumbler call you closer.

You sidle up next to him, and slip onto the barstool beside his.

He glances at you wearily, and you sling him a small, genial-enough smile before looking away.

“I’m waiting for a friend,” he says, dry and dismissive.

“Oh?” you turn back to him, and look him up and down. “You’re waiting for _some_ one.”

He squints, and looks shamelessly down your face, over your lush breasts, along your arms until he stops where your fingers are interlocked on the bartop. Your half-drunk glass of white wine sits casually between your forearms.

He locks eyes with you again and says, “And I take it you think you’re that someone?”

“That part is entirely up to you.”

His brow lifts.

“I very well could be,” you murmur, sipping from your glass. Up close, in this low light, his stunningly blue eyes are dark—but they glint with a mix of humour and impatience, like he’s wondering how long he’ll tolerate this farce until he grows bored and tells you to get lost.

“I don’t much like company.”

That much is painfully obvious. “Oh,” you let your brow crease, and put on a sarcastic tone, “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

He rolls his eyes.

“So I should go then?” You motion to the door with your thumb. “Probably for the best, you reckon?”

He flicks his gaze back to yours, and takes a breath about to say something, before catching his words in his throat. He glances over your form again—and you let him—before he pulls his lips between his teeth and grabs his whiskey.

You’re younger than him, that much he can tell, by fifteen or even twenty years. He’d be mad to go home with you.

He’d be mad not to.

You interpret his silence as wavering indecision—how this grizzled, chiselled old man traversed such a thin, fine line between ‘yes’ and ‘no’—and intrude on his thoughts with a brazen line. “What do you say we get out of here?”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, and absently gestures to his cane as he takes another sip of his drink. “As delightful as this is—and trust me, this’ll make a great story tomorrow—we’re not exactly working with the same _equipment_.”

You spin on the barstool to face him fully, and bare in his face you say, “What does that matter when I’ve got you flat on your back?” You risk a quick glance at his groin—no shame, no fear—before locking eyes again. “Still works, doesn’t he?”

He scoffs. “You’re quite forward, you young thing,” he says, stalling to recover. “What happened to buying me dinner first? Oh no, don’t tell me—is romance really dead?” He exaggerates a frown in mock despair.

You hum a laugh, charmed but otherwise unphased. “It shouldn’t be this hard for you to know if you want to fuck me or not.”

He raises his brows, mouths the word ‘wow’, and says, “I’m just saying, some flowers and a little chocolate—”

“And if it is, you probably don’t.”

He stops, and you bring your glass to your lips. You take a sip, your eyes trained on his—and he doesn’t look away. He scrutinises you, assesses you, rakes over every detail he can get. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—is it? He definitely wants to, doesn’t he?

But, _can_ he?

The man refuses any more introspection and reverts to something else.

He purses his lips as an unkind smile threatens to break over his face. “A big girl and a cripple walk into a bar,” he says, his voice caustic and aimed to disparage the pair of you. But, when you merely tilt your head and smile, he dispenses with the idea of a cruel joke. He changes tact.

“So,” he tries again, “it’s older men, huh? Really do it for you, do they? You like the grey, like an obvious age difference?” He flicks his wrist, gesturing to his face and hair.

“Would I be sitting here trying my damnedest to chat you up if I didn’t?”

He eyes you, unconvinced that this isn’t some devious ploy. He can’t assure himself of your sincerity… yet. “I’m not warm and fuzzy.”

“Shocker,” you say, letting your arm fall to the bartop. “I’m not asking you to be.” You lean a little bit closer to him. “I’m a big girl. If your first instinct isn’t to cuddle me after,” you drop your voice to a whisper, “somehow, I know I’ll find the strength to go on.”

“Ah,” he hums, momentarily pointing a finger in your face before retracting it. “She’s a masochist, then.” Sexually and emotionally. Here it is: he’s figured you out.

“Depends on the day,” you smile, flippant. “What are we, Thursday?”

“Like a little degradation from your old man, hm? Like him a little standoffish. Old enough to be your Daddy and twice as distant, that’s your thing?” he rattles on, starting to glare and glower at you. “You like someone who’s a little mean, huh? A little,” he sighs, getting more and more irritated the more he speaks, “’rough ‘round the edges’.” He downs the rest of his whiskey. “Someone who can’t make room for you—that it?”

You act on pure instinct. You shoot your arm out and grab his wrist, holding his hand firmly to the top of the bar—startling him and shutting him up.

He starts and flinches, brought back to the here and now. He’s said too much, and too little of it had anything to do you. “That’s battery, you know,” he says, looking pointedly at your hand.

But you don’t let up—and then, like a glacier, he slowly melts into your touch.

He lifts his gaze to yours. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…” he murmurs quietly, letting himself trail off as he looks deeply into your eyes.

He doesn’t realise he’d said it out loud.

You release your hold on his wrist, slowly. “You a cop, then? Lawyer?”

He sniffs a mirthless laugh. “The sign on my door says I’m a doctor.”

You hum, and shuffle closer still. He doesn’t lean away, and his lids lower as he enjoys your plush body from a new angle.

You lean in close, and murmur into his ear, “Then, let’s run a test.” With a light, gentle touch you trail the tip of your nose down the shell of his ear, and let your breath fan over his neck as you find the sensitive spot just behind and below his earlobe. You press a soft, tender kiss to his skin, and linger there. He’s warm under your lips, and smells clinically clean, cut by old, faded cologne underneath.

Judging by that and the small sigh you hear him breathe—your guess is that he must’ve had a really long day.

After a moment, you pull back. Your voice is deeper, husky when you speak again. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

He clears his throat, and when he flicks his gaze back up to yours you don’t need a medical degree to see how his pupils have dilated—his eyes blowing black with desire.

“Anything?” you murmur, with a slight quirk to your brow.

A corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “Inconclusive.”

You let a small smile creep slowly across your face—and for half a moment, House could almost unleash one too.

You look to the bartender and catch their eye, holding up two fingers before pointing them down to the stained mahogany surface. “Two more, please.”


End file.
